


Scrape Your Knee; It's Only Skin

by ziusura



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Touch, Canon Divergent, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:25:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/pseuds/ziusura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bloodied hands, no memory, and a stranger in the locker room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrape Your Knee; It's Only Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jacksonhale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksonhale/gifts).



> Just pretending Jackson never left nbd. 
> 
> Warning for some bad touching. See end notes if you need details.

This wasn’t happening again. Couldn’t be. Jackson was a _werewolf_ damnit––not a. Not back to what he was before. But there he was, coming to in the Beacon Hills boy’s locker room, covered in blood, and with no memory of how he got there. And it pissed him the fuck off. 

His muscles ached in a deep sort of way he hadn’t felt since he’d been forced to quit lacrosse, but he stood up anyway––he wasn’t some wimp still attached to his bottle. Jackson was naked, but that shouldn’t have surprised him. He knew the pattern, and if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t know where his clothes or his phone were he’d almost say it was lucky that he didn’t have to strip for his shower. 

He chose the shower closest to the window. It wasn’t his usual or favorite, but it was the only one that didn’t have the light from the moon shining on it, and that offered some comfort, no matter how little. Jackson was thankful the water was hot enough to feel like he was boiling his skin off, but the water pressure was the equivalent of being gently peed on. He didn’t miss that, especially since it made cleaning the blood off himself that much harder. 

Jackson was nearly done when he heard something that sounded like the locker room being shut. He ignored it at first–it was a dark locker room and he was covered in blood. Mind playing tricks and all that. But then he heard a series of metallic scrapes, and a heavy clang. 

There was someone else in the locker room. 

They didn’t turn the lights on, so whoever it was was familiar enough with the locker room that they didn’t need them. A quick glance at the window above the showers showed that the sky around the moon was dark, nowhere near sunset or dawn, so who the hell could it be then? The night janitor? No, fired after all the shit went down in the school. The person he killed–or didn’t? That was ridiculous. 

Jackson turned the water off slowly, and the clangs of _whatever_ the other person was doing in the locker room echoed louder off the tiles. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, around the shower wall and into the locker room. 

There was someone hunched over at the end of the nearest row of lockers, rooting around for something in the bottom. Jackson couldn’t see their face, but the way their back was arched indicated that they were tall, and in the dim light he could just make out a plaid pattern on the other’s shirt. Definitely not enough information to place anyone since most of Beacon Hills wouldn’t know fashion if Armani and Versace shit on them. 

The other pulled out a long length of chain and set it on the floor beside them, and placed a large hand against the locker beside them to brace themself as they dug deeper into their own locker. Jackson knew who it was now, because he only knew of two dweebs that would have that sort of shit in their locker.

“Stilinski?” he barked, though his tone ended up being more questioning than he would’ve liked. 

Stiles jumped upright, his head nearly missing the shelf in his locker and his arm swinging wide as he spun himself around. There was something off in the way he moved, like he had finally grown into his limbs. But no, he was still gangly as fuck, and Jackson pushed the feeling down. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jackson said with as much venom in his voice as he could muster. 

Stiles stepped forward, and sent himself awash with the light from a nearby window. His face was so gaunt and tired looking that Jackson had to wonder how late it was, how many times Stiles had been there in the last week. Then Stiles took another step forward, squared his shoulders, and Jackson let a slow breath out of his nose.

“I could ask the same of you, you know. A late night working out?” Stiles let out a mock gasp before continuing, “You know you’re not supposed to be doing that with your heart condition.” 

Jackson sneered. “You know that’s not real,” he said. Doctors hadn’t known why he’d died on the field, or how he’d come back. His father was going to move him away if Melissa McCall hadn’t stepped in and done something illegal.

Another step forward. Jackson hissed as his bare back touched the cool tiles on the wall next to the shower; he hadn’t been aware that he’d been moving. Stiles’ eyes swept down Jackson’s body almost exaggeratedly, and Jackson stifled a shiver. His eyes rested on Jacksons arms for a moment, before snapping back up to meet Jackson’s. The side of his mouth pulled up in a sinister grin.

“Aw, look who’s feeling scaly again,” Stiles said, and Jackson froze. No snarky mention of Lydia’s love, no complaint about how hard they worked to get Jackson past being a Kanima. Something wasn’t right, and Jackson couldn’t place what it was.

Another step forward still, and they were nearly chest to chest. Jackson pressed his back as far against the wall as he could, but the space didn’t decrease. “You deserve better than this, Jackson,” Stiles continued. He raised his hand as he spoke and placed it against Jackson’s chest, pushing him flatter against the wall. “You know you do. Why should you be stuck in this old mess––you got through it already. Is it Scott? Still feeling jealous?”

Jackson clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to swallow. His mouth felt so dry. “Who are you,” he said, no demanded, but Stiles ignored him. Instead his hand trailed south, tracing skin until his fingertips barely brushed the base of Jackson’s soft dick. 

He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Until Stiles broke the spell. 

“You’re so tense,” Stiles said, and he leaned forward until his lips brushed Jackson’s ear. “You should let me take care of that,” he whispered, and Jackson kept himself from shuddering. What the _fuck_ was going on. 

He jolted forward and grabbed Stiles by the wrist, forcing him away. “Who are you,” Jackson roared with barely contained anger. 

Something changed in Stiles’ eyes, something darker, and he started to laugh. Nothing about it was anything like Stiles’ annoying as fuck laugh. It was like he was running Jackson’s own nails against a chalkboard while a creepy-ass dead children’s chorus sang happy birthday with a bike horn accompaniment.

Stiles broke from Jackson’s grip, and with a strength Jackson didn’t think was possible in _Stiles'_ body, he grabbed Jackson by the throat and pushed him hard against the locker room wall. 

“You’re right, you might be pretty, but this one would never hop off Scott’s dick or stop thirsting for your ex-girlfriend.”

Jackson swallowed, his neck working against the hand around it. “I asked you a question.”

Stiles-–or whoever-–laughed again, and Jackson’s toes curled against the slick tile beneath him. 

“Look at you–-trying to be strong.”

“Did you get bitten? Did Scott bite you?”

Stiles smiled wide, and Jackson was just thankful he didn’t laugh again. “Oh, I’m not a Kanima, Jackson. You’re the only fuck up who got to experience that-” the fingers around Jackson’s neck flexed “-but isn’t the real question who’s controlling you?” Stiles’ voice tapered off to a whisper, and he quirked his head to the side, mocking Jackson. His grip on Jackson’s throat shifted, gripping his chin and pulling Jackson’s bottom lip down a little with his index finger, and Jackson sucked in a breath without meaning to.

“Or better yet,” Stiles said, and his eyes dropped to Jackson’s mouth. “Who did you kill.”

Jackson deflated a little, proud of ability to tell when Stiles wasn’t his usual idiot self, but fuck if he knew how to get out of this. He couldn’t exactly call on Kanima abilities, if that was what he was again. He was such a fucking _failure_.

Jackson licked his dry lips, then immediately regretted it when his tongue brushed against Stiles’ finger–-who knew where that had been. “Hopefully you,” he bit out. 

Another mock gasp. “You’d kill your friend?”

“Stilinski isn’t my friend,” Jackson said. The response was instant. 

Stiles’ eyes dropped to half mast. “Maybe so, but whatever you are, you still wouldn't be able to kill him.”

“Shows what you know,” Jackson said, and was embarrassed to find that his voice shook. 

Stiles leaned forward, so close their noses touched, and Jackson clenched his eyes shut. “Oh, I know more than you know,” he said, and pressed his mouth hard against Jackson’s, his finger still between them. A whimper escaped from Jackson’s throat, and his lip was mashed so hard against his teeth he tasted blood, but finally, Stiles pulled back. 

“You’re prettier when you cry, you know,” he said, and Jackson only shut his eyes tighter, trying to hold back the tears he knew were threatening to run out because fucking shit he was so weak. Stiles let go of him, and Jackson found his knees couldn’t support him without Stiles’ hand grounding him. He hit the floor hard, and when he finally opened his eyes, Stiles was smirking at him from above. 

Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn’t force air through throat. Jesus fuck he was so pathetic. 

Stiles backed away from him, and in three steps he was back at the locker. 

Jackson watched him dig around for a few seconds that felt longer, and finally pulled enough strength together to talk. “We’ll kick you out of there you know. I’ll...I’ll tell Scott.” 

“You don’t even know where your clothes are.”

Jackson’s face twitched, and he was comforted by the annoyance that had begun to fill him. 

Stiles pulled out a gym bag and threw the chain and a few other items from the locker into it, clearly ready to leave. He turned slowly towards Jackson again, shifting the bag onto his shoulder in some twisted version of the mannerism Jackson had seen Stiles do many times.

“You won’t, you know,” Stiles said matter of factly, “but maybe come tomorrow you and Stiles can bond about being out of control of your own body, or how this time he was the unconscious one when you exposed yourself to him.”

Stiles walked past him again, and Jackson didn’t let himself breathe until he heard the locker room door shut.

**Author's Note:**

> The nogitsune goes for a dick grab and Jackson shoves him off. Also a nonconsensual kiss.


End file.
